


His Memory Beside Me

by chininja



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Family Angst, the crown au, the ship really is just a background thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 07:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14869229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chininja/pseuds/chininja
Summary: “There she goes, poor lonely girl. She will be lonely all her life.” - King George VI, about Queen Elizabeth, before his death.Sansa is to be Queen someday, the most powerful woman in the realm, yet simultaneously feels as though all her choices will have been stripped away.Literally just a story that revolves around the Pride and Joy scene from The Crown.





	His Memory Beside Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the lyrics of a song by The Corrs, On My Father's Wings.

Sansa releases a breath and closes her eyes as she shuts the door of the meeting room lightly. She’s excited to be wed to Jon, but having to remember all these protocols is responsible for the dull throbbing in her head. She needed a break; some time to just count to five, and feel like herself again.

_One_

_Two_

_Thr-_

Sansa’s eyes fly open when she hears peals of laughter coming from the drawing room. She hears Rickon’s joyous shrieks, Bran’s quiet admonitions, and Arya’s rowdy taunts thrown at their brothers. The noise evokes a certain warmth in her chest, but laced with a twinge of _something_ that wasn’t quite right. Sansa loves her siblings, would do anything for them, but more often than not she finds she’s jealous of them. Rather, and she never thought she’d ever acknowledge it, she’s jealous of Arya. Arya who just wants to be free in her actions, not constricted by propriety or manners. Arya who laughs raucously, loves passionately, and lives wildly.

Sansa loves her sister dearly, would fight for her if it comes to it. While they often fought as children, living apart had helped them mature. But Sansa knows that between the two of them, Arya is the true Northern girl: fiery and strong.

A true Stark.

And truly, what is she compared to that?

 

She’s no fool, Sansa hears what the lords and the ladies say about her when her back’s turned. They call her a delicate flower. Somehow, she gets the impression that it is never with the intent to compliment.

Of course she recognizes that wanting to please her mother plays a big part in this. The Queen has always favoured her, though she’ll never admit it to her children. As a young girl playing in the gardens of the palace, courtiers and politicians observed Sansa and saw a budding lady. The praise had made her smile. But eventually, the same praise turned into a paralysing pressure to be _perfect_. Even more so since Robb abdicated and chose instead to marry a divorcee, a Miss Jeyne Westerling, instead of his betrothed.

Sansa is to be Queen someday, the most powerful woman in the realm, yet simultaneously feels as though all her choices will have been stripped away.

She doesn’t notice her hand on the handle of the room until the tenseness in her arm alerts her that she has gripped the brass for too long. She decides perhaps a walk in the garden would do her some good, a distraction from all this thinking.

.

.

.

The peonies and gardenias were starting to bloom, and she makes a note to herself to thank Margaery later for giving her the seeds. She stops by a bench and lingers over the bed of flowers. She picks up a stem of a budding peony and a pang of nostalgia hits her, thinks of when her father used to give them to her for her birthday. Sansa thinks of picking a bunch to bring back to him, but second guesses herself. _He’s probably busy with the meeting with the Prime Minister_.

 

Sansa knows her father loves her, and she loves him fiercely too. Only theirs never translated to having a close relationship. Sansa thinks Ned doesn’t quite know what to do with a daughter as feminine as her. She can’t help but think herself a burden, especially after Joffrey, the bruises, and her father shouting, _“No! This ends now, Robert—“_

She takes a step back and feels the bench behind her knees, her legs a little shaky. “Are you alright, ma’am?” It takes her a moment to get out of her head and acknowledge her father’s physician addressing her. “Very well, Dr. Luwin, thank you.” She gives him her public smile, not ingenuine, but not warm either. He surprises her by taking a seat on the bench she intended on using. “Forgive me for being forward, but won’t you sit with me ma’am? Creaky knees, you see.” He smiles at her, the crow feet lines in his features deepening. Sansa chuckles this time, more air than actual sound, but still more candid than the smile she gave him earlier.

“Is Papa alright?” Sansa asks, voice steady but hands fidgeting in her lap. It’s one of her tells. Her siblings have pointed it out frequently enough. She doesn’t do it often, really, only when she’s anxious, or worried, or generally trying to press down emotions she doesn’t want others to see (which is futile around her family and Jon). “Hm? Yes, of course. Just the regular check-up, ma’am.” The doctor replies.

Ever since he suffered a heart attack six months ago, Ned Stark has been regularly visited by his physicians. Some humor can be found in the King’s general disposition on being treated like a disabled, and especially with the diet change. But the weight of its implications is too serious to make light of things. “Between you and me, ma’am,” Dr. Luwin starts quietly, “His Majesty’s health would be much better if he put a complete stop on his tobacco habit.” Sansa tries to hide her snickers when she hears this because haven’t they all tried and failed in telling Papa off?

“But he’ll be alright, won’t he? You told us a month ago that he’s doing much better.”

“He’s not as young as he used to be, but yes. He’s doing much better.”

Sansa hums in response, thinking back on the flush on her father’s face as he was playing with Rickon the other day. She repeats the old doctor’s words to herself. _Papa will be fine, he’s fine._

They chat idly for a few more minutes until Dr. Luwin had to leave for his clinic in London and Sansa had to go back inside the palace lest her mother and her staff start looking for her.

 

She forgets to bring back the peonies.

.

.

.

Jon later finds her in the library, fingers skimming through spines of books she knows so well. Sansa is far from being anti-social. Royal parties never felt like the duty it did for her younger siblings, she knew of her responsibility to the crown but she allowed herself to enjoy them. Besides, that was how she and Jon were introduced in the first place. But when people became too much, she retreats to this place and seeks out the comfort that well-loved stories bring her.

 

“Long day, darling?” Jon greets her with a kiss to her temple, and she can smell the faint scent of the pipe on his jumper. “Jon, you promised.” Sansa didn’t have to finish her sentence, her reprimanding tone does it for her. She feels the rumbling of a chuckle on her back, “It’s not me, I promise.” She turns around and raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him.

Jon doesn’t hide his laughter this time.

“I promise you I’d stop, and I did,” he says with the crooked smile Sansa swears he gives her on purpose to soften her. “I was with your father, and one of his lords. You know how they can get.” His thumb drawing small circles on her hip is utterly distracting her from remaining skeptical. Sansa narrows her eyes a little longer, before eventually pressing herself closer to him, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“To answer your question, yes, it has been a long day.” She murmurs, her breath ghosting his ear. Sansa can still smell the pipe on him, but with her nose very nearly burrowed in his neck, she’s able to smell the soap she gave him underneath his aftershave. A hint of a spice she can’t quite place her finger on that soothes her. Sansa wonders if he wears this with her in mind too. His arms around her tighten for a second before he steps back and leads them towards a reading nook she’s occupied one too many times.

“What’s happened now?” Jon asks, his brows furrowing. And really, how can she resist not touching him then? So she does, because she can, because it’s just them in the library. She rubs her index finger on the space between his brows, smoothing the lines away. “Nothing really. It’s all just gotten tedious, that’s all.” Jon sighs, his eyes closed, and Sansa grins at the sight. It is one of the characteristics that had endeared Jon to her – openly receiving what is very clearly affection. And as people in their station, they have had to be very cautious. Sansa shakes her head in remembrance of her mother, upset upon finding out along with the rest of the country what Robb has done and whom he has chosen.

Sensing that that there’s more she’s not saying, Jon reluctantly wraps his hand on the wrist attached to the fingers touching him, and tucks her hand in his own.

“And?”

“And I wished fervently, for the duration of the hour that I was with Mama, Madame Mordane, and Beth, that we weren’t who we are so that we could just go to a judge tomorrow and be done with it.”

“You really know what to say to make a bloke feel special, love.”

Sansa snorts out a laughter, and slaps him lightly on the shoulder. “You know what I mean.” She sighs a little deeply, and Jon couldn’t help but tuck an errant curl behind her ear when she does so. “I do, darling. It seems far off still, but in two months we’ll just be as we want it to be – together.”

“You, me, and the rest of Westeros watching from their homes.”

“Exactly, very intimate.”

 

Sansa throws her head back in laughter, her burdens seemingly lighter.

.

.

.

It is the night before her wedding, and Sansa isn’t nervous, per se.

She’s not.

 

She loves Jon deeply and nothing would make her happier than being his wife. No, what’s getting her fidgety is the prospect of what the crown can do to her marriage. She’s read her history, she knows what the pressure of her future responsibilities can do to her and Jon. She need not look any further than her own brother. She’s terrified that her duties would push Jon away.

“Sansa? May I come in, sweetheart?”

Sansa turns towards her door, her father’s voice effectively ceasing her pacing. “Of course Papa, come in.” She smooths her hands over her night gown to expel some of her anxious energy. She greets her father with a kiss on his stubbled cheek. “Is something the matter, Papa?”

Seeing her father the night before her wedding _should_ ease some of the tension she’s feeling, but it increases instead. Seeing her father, as lovely a man as he is, reminds her of her own insecurities in their family. “I saw the light from beneath your door and wondered what was keeping you up so late the night before your nuptials,” She leads him towards the settee facing her window and gives her father a small smile.

Sansa wishes she were more like Arya, to let herself feel the way she does and be honest about it. She wishes her relationship with him was as easy as her relationship with her mother. She wishes she knew how to express herself to him in the same way that she never has to think of doing with the Queen.

She doesn’t doubt his love. She just wished she saw it as easily as she saw his love for her sister.

“Sansa? Are you well?”

“I – I don’t,” she struggles with trying to find the right words for what she’s feeling. She tries to tamp down the urge to tell him that everything is alright, that she’s just having some jitters, but that she’s fine. _Truly Papa, no need to worry_.

But she sees his eyes, and sees the softness there and the concern lingering underneath. And how long has she wanted to be the recipient of her father’s soft look?

She takes a deep breath, and summons her bravery and candor.

“I’m scared, Papa.” She sees the way her father stiffens and immediately sees him thinking back to Joffrey. “Not of Jon,” And the King visibly relaxes, knows that in that split second of just reading each other’s expressions, they just _knew_.

“Did you know, that it took your mother and me a year before we could be truly comfortable with each other?” Ned asks, thinking perhaps Sansa’s fear had something to do with comfort and knowing someone intimately – their quirks and idiosyncrasies. She bites her lip, debating whether she should interrupt him and just _speak her mind_.

“It’s not that either, Papa.” Ned looks at her expectantly, encouraging her to continue. “I’m afraid of what the responsibilities of the crown might do to our marriage. I’m afraid that in having to put the crown first at all times, Jon would hate me for it.” She pauses, unsure if she should go further. She looks down to see her father’s warm hand on her own, and it gives her back some of the bravery she’s spent. “I’ve seen what putting personal interest ahead of the monarchy can do. But I wonder if by accepting what is to come, I’m disallowing myself to be selfish every once in a while. To spend as much time as I please with my husband without having to worry about the monarchy or parliament.” She feels her throat tighten around the words she needs to say, and she feels on edge as she spells out her fear to her father.

“I’m afraid of failing my country as a future monarch, Papa. But what I cannot bear, what I fear I will not recover from, is failing you.”

Sansa doesn’t remember closing her eyes, but they snap open when Ned puts his hands on the sides of her face.

“I want to be very clear,” her father’s words a low cadence that almost lulls her. “You have never, nor will you ever, fail me. You are my pride, Sansa.” She sees the earnestness in her father’s face. But this is something she’s heard him say before about her and Arya. “Of course, Papa. I remember. _‘Sansa is my pride and Arya is my joy’_. It’s what you used to tell your guests even when we squabbled as children.”

Ned releases a breath and turns his body towards her. “It’s true, I treat Arya differently from you. I’m perhaps not as supportive of her education in royal etiquette as your mother would have liked. Or that I let her get away with most of the mischief she orchestrates.” Sansa gazes at the night outside her window. She’s hoping that not fully focusing on her father and his words would ease the disappointment she feels. She’s always known he favored Arya over her. But that doesn’t mean it stings any less to be proven true. And if she were being true to herself, a small portion of her wanted to be proven wrong.

“Arya is my joy in that she eases the responsibilities expected of me. Your sister has the uncanny ability to make me forget, if for a moment, that I am a ruler of a country. When I see her, she reminds me that I am also a father and not just a sovereign.” Sansa nods and bites the inside of her cheek. “But you’ve also brought me joy, my darling. Tremendous joy.” She faces him then, a question clear on her face.

“You’ve always taken after your mother, a perfect lady, a perfect princess. You excelled in your studies, and you always knew how to hold your own with dignitaries and diplomats.” Sansa sighs, she’s heard these before. Empty praises from people who’ve always had an agenda with her. She didn’t think her father only saw her for that too. “I know, Papa. I’m not as fierce as a Stark should be.” Sansa’s not usually one to come to abrupt conclusions, no matter that she feels them to be true. But a long day is ahead of her tomorrow, and she’s eager to have an end to this conversation.

“What I am saying, and evidently mucking up, is that your strength and passion lies within you. It may not be the same fierceness as Arya’s temper would be, but you are strong all on your own.” The King touches her face again, before resting his hand on top of hers. “When I see you, I see your grace, kindness, and determination to make the things around you beautiful and right; seeing what could be not just what is. And that is the joy you bring me.

“As for your concern about your relationship with Jon,” he shifts again, back against the settee. “As both his wife and his future sovereign – I will not lie, it will be difficult to balance.” Sansa nods her head slightly, having anticipated this. “However, making it a partnership will certainly help. Share to him what you are able, and take his counsel into consideration, even if you don’t think much of it.” She smiles a little at this. Ned takes both her hands in his when he gives her his own earned wisdom.

 

“And above all, never forget your commitment to each other.”

.

.

.

The morning of her wedding, before she takes her last steps as a Stark, her father very softly whispers in her ear, “You are my pride _and_ joy, my darling. Always.” A kiss on her forehead through her sheer veil, and then hands her over to Jon.

There were plenty of things that made her wedding day unforgettable, but one of the memories that Sansa would cherish the most on that day is that quiet moment between her and her father.

Years later, long after she has been crowned and is on her way to becoming a Queen the monarchy would be honored to have, she sits in her study (she takes her father’s old office) and traces that still moment. She sees the loving way her father looks at her, and hers full of admiration tilted towards his.

She fiddles with her father’s ring she’s taken to wearing around as a necklace, and closes the photo album. She has a meeting with the Prime Minister in an hour, the nostalgia will have to wait.

Sansa Regina has a state to govern.

 

 


End file.
